Somewhere v2
by AdequateLexicon
Summary: This is a rewrite of an old story I wrote called Somewhere that is based off of West Side Story. Pairings and info inside.
1. When You're A Jet

Author's Note: THIS STORY.

Er, more specifically: I originally wrote a story called Somewhere based off of West Side Story. The idea was that the story was going to be beautifully written with glowing adjectives and thrilling prose.

...that didn't happen.

I am rewriting what is effectively the most shame-bringing fanfiction I have ever written because, in short, it needed to be rewritten. Originally, I pretty much just copy and pasted the script into Word and used 'Copy and Replace' to make the names different. That's bad. Don't ever do that.

So, I bring you what will (with any luck at all) be a beautifully written story based off of West Side Story, hopefully one with glowing adjectives and thrilling prose. At the very least, it'll have a lot of words! And, like anything I've ever written, it's going to have tiny bits of humor even though West Side Story is depressing.

Thanks for listening.

-Nadie

PS: The main pairing is GerIta, Spamano, and a bit of a love triangle between Austria, Hungary, and Prussia. There are other smaler pairings (I believe RoChu is mentioned maybe once in the whole story) but those are the central ones. This story also uses human names.

Also, Gilbert thinks Lili is a boy. It's a stupid thing I put in there and I don't feel like taking it out because it amuses me. He figures it out eventually.

* * *

Gilbert was infatuated with the gang life.

He wasn't sure why because, in all honesty, he should have been killed long ago for his smartass mouth. But no, he had survived (even flourished) on the streets. When asked about it, he could never really pinpoint what, exactly, he liked about it. There really wasn't a specific reason he preferred being in a gang than a nuclear family in a nice suburban house. (Not that it had been a matter of choosing between the two. Being in a gang wasn't really a choice in that the other choice was a probable death.) Gilbert enjoyed sticking it to authority. (Always pleasant.) He liked fighting, more than he would care to admit. But deep down, what he really liked about being in a gang wasn't either of those things. And though he would have never admitted to it (since it certainly wasn't very badass) the simple reason was that he felt loved.

Gilbert's parents had forced him and his brother to move to the horrible little metropolis of Manhattan from Germany when he was only six years old. Their mother had died in childbirth, so it was just him, his brother, and their father. Now, Gilbert was too young to remember who, exactly, his father had pissed off, but not too long after the move, his father was shot by someone or other. The event, traumatizing as it was, forced him to grow up alone, caring for himself and for his little brother on the streets. Being taken in by (and, eventually, becoming the de facto leader of) the Jets was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

He always tried to remember that during times such as this one.

Gilbert did enjoy the adrenaline rush of fighting, but he simply wasn't very strong. His true strength lied in his speed, because he was fairly good at dodging attacks and, if he had to, running away. (It was a moot point. Gilbert _never _ran away from a fight.) He fought alongside Roderich, or Rod. In Gilbert's opinion, Rod had _major _anger issues that he needed to work out, but in his particular 'line of work', anger issues were not the worst vice to be had. Besides, Rod was his best friend, so Gilbert was partial to overlooking his flaws. The other two 'members' were Vash, who was amazing at fighting, and his nameless little brother. Little brother had a soft, girly voice, and was not so amazing at fighting, but it was somewhat of a package deal. Besides, who was Gilbert to tell some weak, homeless kid that he was useless? Years ago, he himself had been that useless kid.

Gilbert stared into Antonio's eyes. He smirked. Gilbert couldn't wait to wipe that smug look off of his face. Sure, his face actually seemed to betray a mild sense of fear and annoyance, rather than anything resembling 'smug', but Gilbert knew better. All gang leaders were the same. It didn't matter what stories their faces had to tell. Every last one of them was rotten inside. In a way, Gilbert hoped that gangs would keep popping up or moving near his turf. Gilbert feared the day when the only rotten gang leader in sight was himself.

Just as he was about to throw a punch, Gilbert heard the wail of a police siren. Police cars swarmed the area, and Gilbert was sure that to an outsider, they would look useful and competent. Still, their presence meant that their fight had to end. _Damn, damn, damn. _

Gilbert hated the resident police force. It wasn't completely because they were, well, cops (though that played a big part in it; Gilbert often had days where his eating breakfast constituted a misdemeanor). It had more to do with the fact that the particular cops he had gotten to know way too well were laughably incompetent.

Lt. Jones was pretty bad. He had a serious patriotism fetish, which he made completely obvious every time he opened his mouth, and it was a common joke among the Jets that he jerked it to pictures of American flags (when he wasn't screwing Officer Kirkland, of course; deep down, Gilbert suspected that they really were a couple, and rarely made fun of either of them for this, but he never voiced his thoughts on the matter out loud). Officer Kirkland was even worse, because he spoke in a proper British accent. Gilbert had no idea how long Officer Kirkland had been living in America, but one would think that by now the deadly little streets of Manhattan, and the dialect of those who frequented them, would have eroded that proper English accent. It didn't. Gilbert's friendly advice to him was usually something along the lines of, "Gee, Officer Kirkland, maybe if you got that stick out of your ass, you'd be a much happier fellow!" Okay, so it wasn't the smartest thing to say to a cop, but surely he was used to it. Of all the Jets, Gilbert had the biggest mouth.

"Cease and desist! Cease and desist!" cried Officer Kirkland, foolishly acting as if he had any control over anything (which, and anyone could attest to this, he did not). "I insist that all of you stop what you are doing immediately! Do you have any questions?" He looked frazzled and, if Gilbert was being honest, just a touch neurotic. He silently hoped that he himself would age better. Or die young; that worked, too.

"Si," replied Antonio. "Can you give those instructions in Spanish?" This was the peculiar thing about the Jets and the Sharks; the rivalry had started long before Gilbert or Antonio were even members of their respective gangs. From what Gilbert could gather, there had originally been conflict because the Sharks were largely Puerto Rican and the Jets were more or less American. However, that simply wasn't true anymore. For one, Gilbert didn't even know if the Sharks that the Jets before him fought were the same Sharks that Antonio led, since Antonio himself had only shown up around a month ago. For another, Gilbert had grown up in Germany for six years of his life, and his brother had been born there as well. Rod spoke with an Austrian accent, though Gilbert had no idea if he was really from there. As for Vash and his brother, Gilbert didn't even know their last name, much less their place of origin, though their German was of a distinct Swiss dialect. In short, no one in his big, happy family was American, and even if they were, you couldn't really tell it one way or the other.

However, if you could call the Jets diverse (and Gilbert submitted that you probably could), then you would have to come up with a new word entirely for the Sharks. Antonio was the de facto leader, but to Gilbert's knowledge, he was also the only one who spoke Spanish. Then again, his knowledge was rather limited. Between the horrific fighting, he hadn't quite had time to question Antonio about whether or not his merry little gang was multilingual.

Officer Kirkland huffed. "Please vacate the premises," he said, at first repeating the phrase in English, and then presumably saying it in Spanish (though, of course, Gilbert wouldn't have known one way or another.) If it was supposed to be Spanish, to him it sounded tragically flawed. Sure, it could have been perfect grammar and Gilbert wouldn't have known the difference, but to him it was flawed because Officer Kirkland's British accent trying on Spanish words sounded too hilarious for words. After they left (apparently Gilbert had been wrong about them not understanding "vamos") Lt. Jones turned to face Gilbert's gang.

"Okay, now let's be reasonable here. Okay? Okay. Now look, as great as it is to be an American, you have to understand that those people love wherever they're from, too. Even if it's not as good as America is, the important thing is, they're here now. And that's kind of like they're honorary Americans! So be nice, okay? Or else I might have to intervene. I'm not going save you if you're on the side of evil, boys. So play nice. Say goodbye to the nice boys, Arth-I mean, Officer Kirkland."

At being called by his first name, Officer Kirkland's face flushed, but he did not acknowledge it. "Goodbye, boys," he replied, and both of the men got into their squad car and drove away, the sound of the siren fading into the night.

When they left, Rod snorted derisively (which was typically his trademark sound; Rod was always snorting dersively, it seemed). "They make a very nice couple, do they not?" Everyone laughed at this. Gilbert snickered, but then put on his serious face. "Everybody! Line up! Time for examinin' the damage..in." Whatever, so it didn't rhyme. They could bite him. Before he could think about it too much, though, he heard a baby soft voice cry out.

"Bruder! Your ear has blood on it! Who did it to you?" Gilbert could only guess that Vash's little brother had been the one to make the exclamation. Now, Vash acted more like a soldier than anyone else in the Jets, himself included. It wasn't at all surprising that he had completely blown off an injury. His motto was, "Pain is a message, and you can ignore it just like any other." Despite how he himself acted at times, Gilbert harbored a ton of respect for Vash.

"I'm a casual," he said simply, his voice a monotone. And that was typical Vash. He did have a 'thing' for a firepower, and when he used a gun Gilbert could swear his eyes lit up, but every other time his eyes were dull, and he gave off a distinct 'I could care less' vibe.

"Oh, no! Those imigrants! They branded you!" Wow, who knew someone like Vash could be related to someone so _innocent? _It never ceased to amaze Gilbert how innocent Vash's brother could be; every little thing that happened was met with a wide eyed look or an alarmed gasp. _'I swear, he can be such a girl sometimes,'_ thought Gilbert. _'Hell, you could put a ribbon in his hair and he'd easily pass for one.' _But he had to focus. Gilbert cleared his throat.

"Who did it to you?" he asked Vash. He didn't even know what 'it' was, only that it was an injury that was on his ear, but either way, it suited him to know. Vash glanced at him, his expression completely still.

"Antonio. I heard him say, 'This is for shooting one of my _compañeros' _and I'm sure that was why." Well, that was typical. At least Antonio had gotten the right gang member; no one else besides Vash tended to pack heat. "Who was it I shot, anyway? I've long since forgotten," he finished. Gilbert winced at the statement. Something about it had seemed oddly careless for Vash, like something he himself would say. It was offputting.

Suddenly, Gilbert heard a loud, defiant "Hey!" pierce the air, and instinctivley he turned around. When his eyes fell on the voice's source, he couldn't help but roll his eyes. It was Liz.

Now, without question, Liz was probably the manliest person Gilbert knew. From what Gilbert understood, she was Hungarian, and like Gilbert she was of questionable financial status. (Though, he couldn't help but notice, she had managed to get a hold of her signature weapon, which was her 'lucky' frying pan.) Liz may have considered herself a tomboy, but she was also strikingly beautiful. She had eyes that pierced into you when she spoke, and her hair was long and smooth-looking even though she lived on the streets-of course, Gilbert couldn't have cared less about Liz, now that he thought about it. In fact, she wasn't actually pretty; she looked like a rat. Anyway, despite her considerable 'nads and the fact that she was genuinely cool, Gilbert couldn't let her into his gang. For one thing, she seemed to harbor a crush on Rod. Not that he cared, because he didn't, but the last thing he needed was to have them flirting or worse while he was trying to have a fight or find something to eat. Besides that, she was a girl. Gilbert couldn't let a girl into his gang.

"You're still here?" asked Rod. Gilbert tried his best to ignore him. Even though Rod treated Liz like she was lower than the dirt he walked on, it was obvious from the way his cheeks got pink around her that he probably liked her back. Gilbert didn't like Liz, of course; that was ridiculous. Though, he did have to admit that seeing them together was somewhat sickening. Thankfully, Liz ignored Roderich, and approached Gilbert far more quickly than he would have liked. She stood in front of him with a determined look on her face.

"How about me getting into the gang?" she asked, her face inches away from his own. She was probably doing it on purpose, which was horrible, and a great example of why he would never, ever let her join. He could feel his face heat up, and he turned his head away for about a second before giving her the biggest smirk he could.

"Well, Lizzy, you should know that there's a better chance of the gang getting into you than that ha-_ow!" _ Mid-sentence, he could feel her terrible right hook in his face. Apparently, she had other weapons besides that frying pan of hers. Gilbert wrinkled his nose (in part to determine if he had broken anything; thankfully, he hadn't, though there was blood) and frowned at her. "That hurt, by the way." Liz ignored him.

"Listen. I was brilliant in that fight, Gilbert. And you know it. Why don't you let me join ? I think I could really be helpful. Not that I want to be near you, of course. Or any of your members, especially. I mean, I could technically start my own gang, but-"

"No one would join," finished Rod. Liz gave him a frosty glance before turning her head from him and muttering under her breath.

"Yes, exactly," mutterd Liz. Now she was staring at her steel-toed boots. Gilbert felt bad; everyone knew he was a jackass, but Rod could be really mean sometimes, and of course he knew this from experience. Liz cleared her throat and looked at Gilbert directly in the eyes. "Anyway, Gilbert, if you don't let me become a member, you're a real idiot." He sighed. Perhaps it was true; he had been called an idiot before.

"The road, little lady, the road," he said. Liz glared at him once before spitting defiantly on the ground. Gilbert gave her one last look as she ran off, the sound of her boots hitting the pavement almost sounding like a twisted lullaby. He shook his head when he realized that there were other things to talk about. He stood up on an abandoned tomato crate and addressed his gang.

"Okay, guys! Now, we fought hard for this territory, am I right? Don't answer that. Of course I am. Are we going to let those imigrants take it from us? Of course not! We were here first! Now, I'm not saying they _will _take everything we've worked for. That really wouldn't be fair," he admitted, showing a brief moment of reason. "But I am saying they _might_, and damn it, I don't want to take that risk! So, what are we going to do? I will tell you. We are going to fight if it means we all end up dead!" Everyone cheered. Gilbert made a great cheerleader when the need arose. After all, he had basically implied that they would all be slaughtered, which was dangerous talk when you were in a gang, and of course everyone applauded anyway.

"Then there we have it," he said, his voice carrying a touch more seriousness than it had before. Now he was speaking moreso to himself than to anyone else. "I will challenge our darling little Antonio, and that will be that. I'll do it at the dance," he said under his breath. The local gym was considered neutral territory, so that was probably the best place to do it, he decided.

"Wait a minute," said Vash. "You have to take a lieutenant." It was probably true. Gilbert couldn't trust that Antonio would ahere to gang rules, and anyway, doing anything risky by yourself was stupid. He also knew that Vash spoke the truth, and that he hadn't meant to imply that he himself was the best choice. No, Vash just wasn't that kind of person. It was probably because he didn't care.

Gilbert could have brought anyone, really. More likely than not, they would all be there anyway. Vash had killer aim and a gun, Rod was incredibly loyal and skilled at fighting. Hell, even Vash's no-name little brother might have been an okay choice. For all Gilbert knew, he could be great for pulling at the heartstrings of the Sharks. It didn't matter. What Gilbert did know was that there was only one person he could bring, and it killed him to admit it to himself. Saying it out loud to his gang members would be torture.

"I will be his lieutenant," Gilbert heard Roderich say. He shook his head solemnly.

"No," he began, in an uncharecteristically quiet tone of voice. "We have to have West." Indeed, the words had been just awful to spit out. For one thing, Gilbert's job still wasn't over; he now had to tell West himself, and that within itself was going to suck royally. It had been a long time since West had been a Jet. While Gilbert didn't really believe that it was something you could just give up (after all, you could take the orphan out of the streets, but as far as he was concerned you could never completely take the streets out of the orphan) but to his credit, West had done a pretty good job. He hadn't fought. He hadn't broken the law. He had even gotten a job. Telling him to give up his 'honor-citizen' status was going to be heartwrenching.

"We do not," said Rod. Of course he would say that. Gilbert couldn't remember if West had still been a Jet when Vash and his brother had joined, but for sure Rod had. What was more, Rod had considered it a betrayl of drastic proportions, an opinion he had never quite abandoned. He squinted behind his glasses and looked down his nose at Gilbert. (Gilbert resented the fact that he was short. He deeply suspected that being a starving orphan had stunted his growth, though that didn't explain while all of the other starving orphans he knew were still taller than him.) But Gilbert smirked at him and flipped him off before continuing.

"We most certainly do, my little bespectacled one. He's one hell of a better Jet than you are, that's for sure." It was rather funny how much everyone cared, and Gilbert often exploited it. In his eyes, being a Jet wasn't quite something you could measure. It would be like trying to say one person was better at having a pulse than the next; no matter the handicaps, no matter the circumstances, it was something universal and in the end, something only the petty would measure. But it was an excellent motivational tool, and Gilbert weilded it with a semblance of pride.

Rod scowled at him. "Does he even want to be a Jet? If you don't mind me saying, I don't think he does." Ugh, Rod could be so annoying. Sure, he was probably right (Rod was right about a lot of things, but Gilbert rarely gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging this.) He opened his mouth to speak, when he heard Vash's brother speak.

"But who wouldn't want to be a Jet?" The question brought a smile to his face. Indeed, who wouldn't want to be a Jet? Gilbert wasn't sure if the question was directed at him or "Big Brother Vash", so for the time being he left it unanswered. He frowned in the direction of Rod.

"Listen, Rod. I do mind you saying it. He's my brother, and he's always been here for us. More to the point, he always _will _be here for us." Whatever Rod was trying to imply, Gilbert took offense. Still, Rod continued to speak.

"But he hasn't been with us for over a month," insisted Rod. Gilbert clenched his jaw, and tried very hard not to say anything that he'd regret. It was more self-restraint than he normally showed, but he didn't feel particuarly proud, because at that particular moment he had the urge to wrap his hands around Roderich's pretty little neck and squeeze as hard as he could. _Deep breaths._

Thankfully, Vash spoke up in defense of West. "What about the day we defeated the Emeralds? We couldn't have done that without Ludwig," he said, his voice cold and calculating. (When Vash spoke, it always sounded like there was steel in his words.) Gilbert gave Vash a grateful smile.

"He saved my neck," said Vash Jr., head bobbing in agreement. (Gilbert made a mental note to ask Vash what, exactly, the name of his little brother was when things weren't so stressful. For now, Vash Jr. would suffice. It was true, anyway. Vash's little brother never dared to disagree with him as far as Gilbert could tell, and it wasn't like Gilbert ever directly addressed him when he could help it. Maybe he could come up with a nickname or something.)

"And there you have it! Once you're a Jet, you're always a Jet!" declared Gilbert. Now that everyone had agreed with him, Rod was completely outnumbered. He smirked at Rod before his voice took a serious tone. "Don't worry, I know West like the back of my hand. He's in. Just watch." And it was true. He probaly wouldn't _want _to be in, but he would most certainly do it. He had to.

Rod crossed his arms. "In, out, I really couldn't care less," he said loftily. Gilbert knew that he was just mad because he had lost, and all in all, Gilbert was okay with that. He knew that Rod would be perfectly fine once West showed up, intact and willing to fight.

"You should care," said Vash, before turning to face Gilbert. "Where exactly are we going to find Antonio, anyway?" It was a legit question, but thankfully, Gilbert had an answer for him.

"I'm glad you asked," said Gilbert. "There's a dance tonight at the gym, and he should be there. So that's when I'll ask," he finished. He noticed that everyone gave him blank looks, even Vash, whose expression was almost never as blank as it was now. Rod's expression was more of suspicious, but it still carried the same confusion. "What?" Gilbert couldn't help but feel defensive from their stares. "You must think I'm up to something. Well, you can all relax because I promise, I'll be a good little boy." He gave them all a mock salute befor continuing to speak. "I'm only challenging him. Mark my words, I won't lay a finger on him at the actual dance." _'If I can help it.'_

Gilbert stepped down from the tomato crate and gave everyone a broad smile. Rod cleared his throat and spoke to everyone. "Dress sharp," insisted Rod, "and be there at ten!" Gilbert decided to play along. If Rod wanted to play leader, it didn't hurt anyone, and Gilbert knew that it was how he licked his wounds from being outnumbered.

As everyone walked away, Gilbert smiled to himself. Now he just had to convice West; no easy task, but certainly doable. He headed in the direction of the store where West worked, and he sang to nobody as he walked, his voice echoing in the streets.


	2. Something's Coming

Ludwig dipped his brush into the can of blue paint one last time. He had almost finished making the sign, and he had to admit, he was proud of it. He had never considered his handwriting to be spectacular, but the sign didn't look nearly as awful as he was afraid it would. With a sweeping motion, he finished the 's' on the sign before leaning it against the wall to dry.

He nearly dropped his paintbrush in sheer shock when he heard (in the middle of what he thought was an empty street, and at night no less) his brother call him by a name to which he no longer answered. Ludwig sighed and shook his head to himself. He had been perfectly preoccupied, and now he had to answer to Gilbert, a task that was usually neither easy or, for that matter, worthwhile.

"Hey! West! What's up?" Ludwig had been about to answer (something along the lines of, "Please don't call me that,") when he saw a fresh looking wound across Gilbert's cheek. He frowned to himself. It wasn't quite surprising to see it there, not really..Ludwig didn't know. No, it certainly wasn't surprising, but it never did get easier to see his older brother with a new injury everytime he saw him.

Ludwig sighed again. "If I didn't already know, I could ask you the same thing. I really wish you wouldn't fight so much, Gilbert..." He trailed off. Ludwig knew that asking a gang member not to fight was like asking a fish not to swim, but he always winced when he saw his brother's latest wounds.

"Oh, this?" Gilbert looked genuinely surprised. He gently ran his fingers over the wound, grimacing slightly as he did so. "Yeah, you can thank your lovely neighborhood Spainiard for _this _little number." Ludwig frowned again, but didn't say anything.

Now Gilbert sighed, and he opened his mouth several times, as if he had been trying to speak but been unable to find the words, which was unusal within itself. Ludwig braced himself. "Er, speaking of, can I ask you a favor?"

Oh, God. Gilbert asking 'favors' could not lead to anything good. Every single time he had asked Ludwig to do something, he had always ended up regretting it. It was exactly for reasons like this that he had abandoned 'the gang life'. Ludwig had grown tired of the wounds, the stress, the fear.

But Gilbert was his brother. It had been enough of a betrayl when he had quit the Jets. He didn't want to disappoint his brother anymore, even though he wasn't exactly craving the approval of a man who spent his days beating others up for asinine reasons. No, Ludwig didn't respect Gilbert, but nonetheless, Gilbert was his brother, and Ludwig sighed once more and looked him in the eyes.

"Okay, you have my attention. What, pray tell, do you want me to do?" It was a question he would regret asking, he was sure of it.

Gilbert's face lit up. He began to talk, speaking quickly and all in one breath. "I need you to come join the Jets for one last night. Just one more time. It's very important. It's for-" Ludwig interrupted him.

"No. Now go play nice with the Jets," he said, focusing his attention on his sign. No. No, no, no. There was no way in _hell _ he was going to do anything gang-related ever again. It was one thing to ask for a favor; maybe Gilbert needed money, or a place to stay for a while. (In fact, Ludwig knew that he needed those things, though he did know for a fact that he would never have the humility to ask for him, and his sheer pride would take any unsolicited offerings as a slap to the face.) Being in a gang had been awful. He gritted his teeth. _'I would rather be shot, I would rather be killed than have to go through that again,' _he thought to himself.

Even more peculiar was this feeling he had, deep inside of him. It was incredibly odd; Ludwig was not a man who believed in fate or premonition, but he couldn't shake the distinct feeling that something good was about to happen. It was horrible, in a way. He had been raised to never set his expectations high, but despite all logic, Ludwig saw the glass half full and could swear on his life that a miracle was about to happen to him. It was both glorious and devastating, a blessing and a curse.

But no matter _what _happened, Ludwig knew that there was nothing good that could happen from being a Jet. If something good was going to happen, it wasn't going to happen by being a Jet for a night. After all, it had certainly never caused anything pleasant in the past.

Gilbert's smile melted into a look of shock. "T-the Jets are awesome!" cried Gilbert indignantly. Ludwig knew he had struck a nerve (since insulting the Jets was like insulting Gilbert himself) but he didn't care.

"Were," he said simply. Of course, even that was a lie; in his opinion, the Jets were never 'awesome', as Gilbert was so fond of saying, not even when he had been a member. However, a part of him said it just to get a reaction from Gilbert. For once, he felt like being the annoying one; though only slightly, since Ludwig had standards and self-control, both of which Gilbert lacked.

Gilbert placed his hands firmly on his hips. "Were?" he exclaimed. "I think not!" He began to pace, something he had always done when he was stressed or nervous. He continued to speak. "Why, have you found something better? Are you holding out on me, West?" The pacing got faster, and Ludwig shook his head before walking over to Gilbert and grabbing him by the shoulders, looking him directly in the eyes.

"I have a name, you know," he said, calmly. It wasn't that being called 'West' offended him, because in actuality it didn't. (The origins of the nickname probably should have offended him; it had stemmed from a joke that the way they spoke German was so drastically different that Ludwig spoke like someone from the western part of Germany, when in actuality they both suspected that they were from the east-though, neither or them could remember for sure.) No, the nickname just reminded him of when he was in a gang, and that within itself made Ludwig feel highly uncomfortable. Gilbert laughed somewhat nervously. Ludwig could recall, he never had liked being touched, even if it was just on the shoulders. It was a trait they shared, though usually Gilbert hid it better. 

"I take it you're not feeling the brotherly nostalgia that I am?" Gilbert managed to squirm out of the light grasp, visibly relaxing once he had done so. He gave Ludwig a broad smile. "West is your gang name!" He frowned for a milisecond before starting to pace just like he had before. "West, Ludwig, _whatever _you want me to call you, what is it? You have to tell me," he pressed. Ludwig was mildly annoyed; did it not occur to Gilbert that he had simply decided there was an alternative to a life of violence and fear? No, of course it didn't.

"What, did you meet a girl?" Ludwig could only roll his eyes now. "You did, didn't you?" Gilbert finally stopped pacing and smirked at Ludwig. "You met a girl and you didn't tell me? Your awesome big brother? You don't know how much that hurts me." Ludwig was about to correct him (he had scarcely met any women at all, let alone one who could be referred to as 'a girl' in the sense that Gilbert meant) but Gilbert continued to talk. "You know, I didn't actually peg you as the type. Something about you just makes me think you're _at least _ bi, but then again, who am I to judge? Do what makes you happy, that's what I always sa-" Ludwig had placed his hand over Gilbert's mouth.

"Enough," he said flatly. "Do you want to continue debating my sexuality, or was there another reason you came here?" Gilbert would never understand, anyway. For one thing, Ludwig highly suspected that he was closer to asexual than anything else. He hadn't met any women he had an attraction to, that was true, but he hadn't met any men he was attracted to either. Of course, with Gilbert, that was never a good enough answer. He could hear Gilbert snicker, and he removed his hand.

"Wow, West," he began through his laughter, "I am _so _sorry if I hit a nerve, there." He snickered a bit to himself before continuing. "No, but seriously," he added, and his voice did contain a serious tone that it rarely had, "you can tell me anything. I know something's up with you," he said. Ludwig sighed. He did need someone to talk to, after all.

Ludwig took a deep breath and began. "Every single night for the past month or so, I've woken up, and...I feel as if I am reaching out, though to what I don't know. I feel like something good is coming, but I don't know what." He exhaled deeply. "It's like that feeling, that exhiliration I used to get from being a Jet."

Gilbert didn't say anything. "Oh," he said. "You mean like, from being buddies. I see." His voice took on an unusual somber tone, and paired with the lightheartedness with which he usually used the word 'buddies', it was completely unusual. Ludwig looked at him with surprise.

"Gilbert, please don't look so upset. I assure you, we're still..." He hesitated a little at the casual term, but decided to use it anyway. "...'buddies'," he finished.

Gilbert frowned. "Liar," said Gilbert. "Liars always hesitate. And, anyway, it's the people who give you the kick. That's why there _is _a kick, from being in a gang. It's the people." He kicked at the concrete before continuing. "I don't know what else to tell you," he said simply. When Ludwig didn't say anything, Gilbert continued. "Come on, man! I never asked the time of day from a cuckoo-clock! I never asked anybody anything. But I'm asking you. Please, be there at the dance tonight. Just, be there. With any luck at all you won't even have to throw a punch." He looked sincere before laughing bitterly. "That's the plan, anyway." Now Gilbert's bright red eyes met his own. "You know, I already told the guys you'd be there."

What choice did he have? It was his brother, after all. Besides, the whole reason being a Jet had been bad was because of the fighting, and supposedly he wouldn't have to fight. Of course, the whole thing was idiotic, and trusting Gilbert was even _more _idiotic, but Ludwig couldn't help but wonder...maybe this good thing, this good thing that had been keeping him up for over a month now...maybe, just maybe, it would be waiting for him at that asinine dance. Taking a deep breath, Ludwig spoke. "Fine. I'll be there. What time?"

Gilbert did a fust pump. "Yes!" He laughed, perhaps out of gratitude, that peculiar laugh of his. "Ten o'clock is what Roddy decided. That's when we're meeting, West!" He gave Ludwig a quick hug before continuing to do what he probably thought was a victory dance.

Ludwig arched an eyebrow. "Since when do you let Roderich make the decisions?" Unless there had been a major overhaul of the gang hierarchy, Roderich never decided anything. Gilbert blushed at the question.

"Long story," he said. "Not important." There was a bit of an awkward silence before he spoke again. "So, you'll be there? Womb to tomb?" He held out his hand. Realizing just how much he had shot himself in the foot, Ludwig shook his hand in return.

"Birth to earth," he replied. He frowned at Gilbert. "And I'll no doubt live to regret this."

Gilbert punched him in the arm. Thankfully, he had almost no upper body strength, so it didn't hurt too much. "Don't be such a Debbie Downer! Live life a little, would you, West?" He laughed a bit to himself before turning to walk in the direction of the gym. "You know something, West? Maybe whatever it is that's been keeping you up will be there at the dance! You never know," he said, before running off into the distance in an undignified manner.

_'Who knows?' _Maybe, just maybe, his brother was right. Maybe something good would come out of going. That was the idea, anyway.

Ludwig shook his head out of disgust with himself. He had given in to his brother yet again. Why was it that, out of all the people he knew, the one person he couldn't quite get himself to turn down had to be an idiot?

He doubted very much that any good would come out of going. Still, Ludwig couldn't stop the feeling of hope that he harbored.


	3. Feliciano's Dress

Feliciano smiled a happy little smile to himself, only wincing when he felt the sharp jab of the sewing needle or pin hit his side. In a way, he didn't really care that his first dance (well, his first dance in America, at any rate) was going to be one where he would be ridiculed. He was determined to have a good time, even if he was going to be laughed at. Besides, when he was a child, he was often mistaken for a girl, so maybe it could work. At any rate, it would teach him not to make bets with his brother. He decided to make idle conversation in the meantime-not because his brother Lovino was a thrilling conversationalist (he wasn't) but because standing completely still for _so long _without moving or saying a word had been incredibly boring.

"It's really nice of you to make this dress for me," he said to Lovino, who was hemming the dress. And, he had to admit, it was a very nice dress. It was white, which Feliciano thought made him seem like a baby, but it was made of satin. Considering that he was going to the dance dressed like a girl, he had to admit that he would at least feel like a pretty one. Besides, despite his high-pitched voice and occasional feminine mannerisms, he still wasn't built like a girl. It made Feliciano feel better to know that people probably wouldn't get his gender confused.

There was a pause, and then he spoke. "Hey, Lovino? Can you make this just a tiny bit shorter? I shaved my legs and everything!" After making an 'ew' face, Lovino had rolled his eyes and told him _no. _"How much can one little inch do?" whined Feliciano. It wasn't fair that he had to wear a dress at all; did it have to be a frumpy one? It wasn't even that flattering on him, really, now that he thought about it. The more he looked at the length, the less pretty it looked.

Lovino shook his head as he took in the waist. "Too much," he replied. Lovino was _always _like this. Feliciano was certain that if Lovino would just smile more, he wouldn't be so grumpy all of the time. But as it stood, he smiled once in a blue moon, and was probably the grumpiest person Feliciano could name.

Feliciano pouted. "But Lovino," he began, whining, "it is a dress for _dancing_. Not for kneeling in front of an altar." He shook his head as he tugged at the dress's edge. "It's so frumpy," he murmured. Feliciano was certain that an inch wouldn't do anything at all, and Lovino was just being stubborn.

Lovino glanced up at him. "You know, Felicia," he said, using the feminine name as he often did when he wanted to be patronizing, "you can't trust the boys over here." Lovino reached for his tomato pincushion before continuing. "Let me tell you something, with these boys, you can certainly start out dancing, and then before you know it, you'll end up on your knees." It took Feliciano longer than it should have to get what Lovino was implying, and he was glad that he couldn't see him blush.

"Il miele, just one inch, un po alta-" he began, but Lovino cut him off.

"Antonio made me promise," he said shortly. Ah. So that was why Lovino had been so insistant on it. Whether he admitted it or not, Lovino loved Antonio to death, so if the instructions had been from him, then there truly was no hope.

"Antonio?" asked Feliciano. Antonio was incredibly nice, and probably the most cheerful person Feliciano knew, but he was very overprotective. "He never wants me to have any fun. Why did he even bother bringing us here? I mean, I know why he brought you here, but why me?" Just as Lovino was head over heels in love with Antonio, Antonio was practically nothing without Lovino, or at least that was how it seemed to Feliciano.

"To marry Kiku," said Lovino impatiently, "now be quiet so I can focus." Feliciano couldn't help but frown at the name.

Kiku was a boy that Antonio had met while traveling abroad in Japan. He had been part of the reason they had moved to Manhattan; Kiku was an underage genius who had made billions for himself off of selling some computer product, and was opting to move to 'the land of oppurtunity'. In a way, the nickname must have been true, because Antonio had certainly seized the oppurtunity to arrange a purely financial, though all in all beneficial marriage out of it. It was something relatively harmless, though one that made Feliciano feel rather limited, especially if he were to actually fall in love one of these days.

Kiku was painfully quiet and shy, and Feliciano's heart went out to him. He supposed that they probably would have been friends even if they hadn't met; he was incredibly polite, for starters. In fact, he was so polite that he suspected their arranged marriage had only been arranged because of Kiku's reluctance to offend.

But Feliciano hadn't met Kiku by chance. No, they were betrothed, and even though it was both implied and directly stated (depending on who you were talking to) that the marriage was to be strictly for the money, Feliciano couldn't help but feel like along the way, the arranged marriage was supposed to lead to him falling in love with Kiku. To be honest, it wasn't that Kiku wasn't nice, or even good looking. He had also gotten the impression tha the only slack he got was due to the fact that Kiku was also a male. Despite this, Feliciano somehow felt that even if Kiku had been a rich little Japanese girl instead of the boy he was born as, it wouldn't have made much of a difference, and to be honest, he didn't think it mattered one way or the other what _gender _Kiku was. It just seemed to be something about him that quelled all attraction.

"When I look at Kiku, nothing happens," said Feliciano quietly. And it was true. Feliciano wasn't quite sure what he expected to happen (fireworks, perhaps, or even one's heart skipping a beat) but he did know that he and Kiku lacked a certain chemistry, and he was fairly sure that the feeling was mutual. Lovino, who had been working on the zipper, spoke to his back.

"And just what do you expect to happen, Feliciano?" He practically spat out his words, though Feliciano suspected that this was because he was irritated with the work-though, he submitted that it also could have been an irritation with him. It was such a literal question that Feliciano struggled to come up with an answer. Finally, after a far too long silence, he spoke.

"I don't know," he admitted. He tried desperately to think of something, _anything _to appeal to Lovino. Finally, it hit him, and he snapped his fingers triaumphantly. "What happens when you look at Antonio?" Lovino was not facing him, but Feliciano knew that his face was probably a deep scarlet. Bringing up Antonio tended to cause that effect, but when anything involving the two of them _together_-together was added to the mix, the effect was increased by tenfold.

Feliciano heard him mutter some curse words in Italian before finally speaking. "It's when I don't look at him that something happens," he replied testily. Feliciano laughed, a light, twinkly laugh. It probably wasn't true, since Antonio rarely got into any trouble at all (well, except for the fighting; Feliciano tried not to shudder at the thought) but all the same, hearing Lovino say it amused him. But soon it occured to him that the dress was nearly done, and if he didn't act fast, he would have to go to the dance dressed not only like a girl, but like a dowdy girl. He cleared his throat and tried to get back to the subject on task.

"But Lovino, if you just made it a little bit shorter-" he began, but Lovino cut him off.

"Next year, Feliciano." This was punctuated with a deep sigh, and a jab to the back with a sewing needle that Feliciano could swear was intentional. He bit his lip slightly to keep from crying out in pain, so he wouldn't annoy Lovino any further. After all, being annoying wasn't going to get him a stylish dress.

"But Lovino," he began, trying to stop himself from sounding whiny, " by this time next year, I'll be married, and I probably won't even go to dances." He frowned at the thought, imagining all of the happiness being drained from his life. He wasn't sure why he thought of marriage so negatively. Perhaps it was the thought of being married to someone he didn't actually love. He shook the thought from his head. Negative thinking wouldn't get him anywhere, either. Feliciano couldn't help but pout, though, as he continued to make his case. "And if I _do _go to dresses and I _do _wear a dress, no one will care if I wear them to here," he said, gesturing to his upper thigh.

Lovino, who had now stood up to get a better look at the dress and see if there were any changes to be made, frowned distinctly. "Well, that's not true at all, you idiot," he said, though Feliciano didn't detect malice in his insult. "I would most certainly care if you dressed like a prostitute and wandered the streets. I don't want you to get mugged or worse, you know," he said. The way he said 'worse' made a chill go down Feliciano's spine.

Lovino sighed, a 'I carry the world on my shoulders' sigh. "If it bothers you so much, go to the dance naked. Better yet, don't go at all. It makes _my _job of chaperoning you a thousand times easier if you just stay home." Of course, Lovino must have known that there was no way that was going to happen, and he continued to circle Feliciano, examining the dress from all angles.

Feliciano's mind began to wander. _'Hmm,'_ he thought, _'what could make the dress better besides making it shorter? Ooh! What if it was red?' _He smiled to himself, proud of himself for coming up with the idea.. Red was a pretty color, and even if it was a long, boring dress, making it red would make it _so _much prettier. "Hey, Lovi," he began, trying to keep the exitement out of his voice, "can we make it red? Can we? Can we?" He bounced slightly from his toes to his heels, too nervous to keep from moving.

Lovino's trademark frown deepened, though it seemed to be one of confusion. "Make _what _red? The dress?" When Feliciano nodded, Lovino shook his head. "No, we can not," he said flatly. "I just finished making this dress for you, you ungrateful brat. How can you expect me to take the time to dye it and go through all of that work?" Lovino took Feliciano's hand in his own and led him to the mirror. "Hopefully, though, this will satisfy you instead."

No! No, it wasn't fair! White was for virgins, and brides, and babies, and even though he was technically all three, it just didn't seem fair that he would have to advertise it. "White is so boring," he cried, "and I really don't see why-" Suddenly, he screamed (well, squealed) with joy. The dress was still white, but a red sash was wrapped around the middle. "Oh, my goodness! It really is beautiful, Lovino. I love you so much!" Feliciano pulled his brother in a strangling embrace before beginning to spin around in the dress. He could definitely see why girls wore them so much. Even if this was supposed to be embarrassing, he couldn't help feeling very pretty. Now he didn't even mind going to the dance. In fact, just as he had before, he looked forward to it.

Just then, the door opened, and Feliciano turned his head, grabbing a hand on a nearby table to steady himself as he stopped spinning abruptly. Antonio walked in with Kiku at his side. "Toni!" cried Feliciano. "Don't I make a pretty girl?" Antonio laughed. Antonio kissed the top of his head.

"You are very pretty, aside from the gender confusion you are surely feeling, my little Felicia," he said, beaming. The nickname was different from Antonio. In fact, Feliciano was often called 'Felicia' by several members of the house, though for the most part it was somewhere in between the scorn with which Lovino used it and name's adoration when used by Antonio. Lovino meant it as an insult, but with Antonio, it was a pet name. Feliciano smiled broadly at the compliment.

"Thank you, Toni!" Feliciano gave Antonio a brief hug before continuing to spin around in his dress as he had before. He listened politely to Lovino's complaints to Antonio as he did, feeling like he was eavesdropping even with their voices in plain hearing distance.

"Bastard," said Lovino, "I'm the one who made the damned dress, and you have nothing to say to me?" Antonio laughed and kissed Lovino too, only on the lips and for a couple of seconds longer. "Idiot," Feliciano heard him whisper, "not in public!" Feliciano giggled lightly. Their relationship was so odd. Lovino constantly acted like he hated Antonio, Antonio seemed positvely head over heels in love with Lovino, and either way it was obvious that neither one could live without the other. He stopped spinning again, and walked over to Kiku.

"Um...hi," he said, hoping the awkwardness he felt didn't show through his voice. "You can come in, you know," he said, as politely as he could manage. He gave Kiku what he hoped was a friendly smile.

"But this is a women's store," he murmured, looking at his feet. Kiku was _so _shy. Painfully shy. It nearly broke his heart to see someone so afraid of their own species. Feliciano grabbed him by the hand and pulled him into the store.

"It's okay, Kiku! It's not like any of us are actually women! Besides, bridal shops can be for guys too, right?" When no one answered him, Feliciano continued to speak. "Don't worry, Kiku, Toni owns this store anyway, so even if it _is _usually for women, it's under his name, right Toni?"

"That's right!" His smile was infectious. Feliciano could never picture Antonio as anything but happy. It was what Feliciano liked best about him. Even when he came home late one night, covered in dirt and blood, he'd always find something to smile about. In fact, even by the next morning, when the bruises had already formed-

Feliciano shook the thoughts from his head immediately. He couldn't stand to think about the fights. The fights were awful. He couldn't imagine anything worse than having all of his loved ones marching out every night to fight a bunch of horrible people. So he focused on the dance. Yes, the dance! He was going to have fun, and everything would be bright and beautiful. He turned to Antonio and cleared his throat. His face took on a solemn look

"Toni," he began, "it is very important that I have a good time at the dance tonight." Antonio looked down at him, his smile looking somewhat confused.

"Oh?" he asked. "And why is that, little Felicia?" Now Feliciano had everyone's attention, at least. Lovino scowled in his direction, though it was obvious that his heart wasn't in it, and he kept stealing glances at Antonio.

"You see," said Feliciano, "tonight is going to be my first _real _night at a dance!" He felt like he was about to burst with joy, but he continued. "But not just any dance. Oh, no," he said, building up to his major point. "No. Tonight is going to be my first real night at an American dance!" When he smiled broadly, Feliciano found that he was met with nothing but reciprocal ones, even from Lovino. "And I can't wait!" He punctuated his speech with the final happy thought. _'Nothing can go wrong now!'_


	4. The Dance

Ludwig was sure that this dance would have ended almost as soon as it had begun, if it were not for an often-ridiculed young man named Matthew. (Most people called him 'Maple Leaf', to mock his Canadian heritage. Ludwig always called him Matthew, on the few occasions he talked to him.)

It had been at the beginning of the dance. As he had promised, Ludwig had been there at ten o'clock sharp, meeting in the back with the other Jets, who for the most part sat around. Ludwig had winced, almost involuntarily, when he saw the Sharks walk in, and for this reason he chose to look away. He felt horrible, if only because he knew that despite what crimes they could have comitted, they were still victims, of a gang that he wasn't quite sure he had totally cut all ties from. It made him feel like everything unfortunate that had ever happened to a Shark was somehow his fault, and for this reason he avoided eye contact with any of them.

Unfortunately, at that moment Gilbert (damn it Gilbert, _damn it to Hell _because it was _always _Gilbert) had antagonized the leader of the Sharks. It was a pity that Ludwig couldn't remember his name, because typically he hated reducing people to what they did or didn't do in a gang; he found it insulting when others did it to him, after all. Ludwig had been too far away, and too reluctant to approach, so he hadn't heard what either of them were saying. He could hear sentences punctuated with what he assumed were Spanish insults, and several times he heard Gilbert begin a statement or phrase in German before switching to English (a typical sign that he was too emotional to think clearly; he had done it for as long as Ludwig could remember) but that was largely it. Ludwig distinctly remembered thinking, _'Five minutes in and we're already about to have a fight.' _

But just when things were about to get heated, a knight in modestly-dressed armor had approached the scene to break everything up. Bless his heart. He bore a striking resemblance to Lt. Jones (a man Ludwig had rather disliked from his early day in Manhattan, when he had threatened him and his brother with prison for sleeping on a park bench), but on the other hand he didn't. His hair was longer, for one thing, with one strand that seemed curly, frazzled, and out of place. For another, this man lacked a certain life in his eyes that Lt. Jones had, that livliehood being replaced with a rather saddening despondence. Finally, his voice: as close as he may have _looked _to Lt. Jones, the minute he opened his mouth, he removed all doubt that he was another person entirely.

"Maple!" _Maple? _"Ah, all right, b-boys and girls!" The stammer in his quiet, meek voice made him downright pitiable. "Attention, please! Please?" After he had been struggling for several minutes, Officer Kirkland appeared behind him. (Perhaps that had been how he had gotten some semblance of respect-an obeservation that Ludwig found hard to believe despite witnessing it, since typically Officer Kirkland didn't exactly command respect himself.) "Thank you! Ah, sure has been a lovely turnout tonight, w-wouldn't you say?" He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. From what Ludwig could tell, he was reading off of notecards. "Okay, so w-we're all here to make friends, right? So we're going to have a few get-together dances. Doesn't that sound like fun?" The instructions were for boys to gather in a circle on the outside, and girls to gather on the inside. Ludwig pre-emptively winced. There was no way this could end well.

"Maple!" shouted Matthew. There was that word again. It seemed completely out of place, almost as out of place as the apparent joy in his voice. Ludwig could detect a Canadian accent, or at least he thought he could, but he hadn't been aware that the Canadians' obsession with the plant carried over into their speech. "That's it, you've got it." Now his voice took on the same fear it had before, as if the Sharks and the Jets were seconds away from joining together and deciding to turn all of their hate on him, instead. As unlikely as this was (it would probably take a severe tragedy to bring the two gangs together, if that) Ludwig found the fear in his voice less than encouraging. He had seriously started to regret listening to Gilbert. Well, that wasn't a surprise.

What happened was almost hilarious, if one had a rather dark sense of humor. The idea of the excercise had, presumably, been to get people to know each other by introducing them to other people of the opposite gender. Predictably, anyone who was a Jet ended up with a Shark, and vice versa.

And it was downright horrible.

Ludwig watched as the leader of the Sharks reached across the half-hearted circle to grasp the hand of someone else in the circle, whose face Ludwig couldn't see. Then everything else began to slowly collapse. Gilbert grabbed the hand of a scrawny girl with caramel colored hair who Ludwig vaugely recognized as Erzebet, only seconds later remembering that she went by 'Liz'. (In fact, if she had spoken the truth, he was the only Jet who knew what 'Liz' was short for. It had come up in a discussion of why 'West' was not even close to his real name.) The shocking thing was that Ludwig could have sworn that the two hated each other, and the look of hurt on Rod's face punctuated the shock. On the surface, the three had seemed trapped in a triangle of hate, but perhaps it was something else entirely. Anyway, the little game had dissolved into what Ludwig could only call a 'dance-off'.

It wasn't surprising that Gil had begun to dance with Liz. (Well, perhaps the fact that it was Liz still bore some shock, but the fact that he was dancing and making it a contest wasn't.) Neither was the fact that the leader of the Sharks had now started to dance, as well, or the fact that he had brought his angry-looking date with him. Ludwig felt sorry for his date; unlike everyone else, he seemed upset at the prospect of dancing publicly.

Ludwig didn't have to feel sorry for long, though, as what eventually happened was less like a 'dance-off' and more like a mosh pit. The dancing was violent and erratic, and while it wasn't like he would have been eager to particpate if it had been a waltz, the spastic nature of the dancing made Ludwig wary, at best. No, he would not be dancing tonight. The idea of procuring alcohol did occur to him, until he remembered that Officer Kirkland was present, and so he began to look around the room for something interesting. There was a table of punch (punch that was for sure tainted, though probably with something that he didn't want to be ingesting), there was a corner that held three sad, pathetic-looking balloons, and there was a wall of empty chairs. Fair enough. Ludwig would take the chairs.

He hadn't been sitting there for long when he noticed that he was no longer alone. Normally, Ludwig hated being sneaked up on, and at an event where fighting was not just possible but likely, out of sheer nerves Ludwig's typical reflex would have been to punch the unlucky person in the face. But it was odd; before turning around, before even knowing the face or voice or gender of the person next to him, Ludwig had detected a sense of vulnerability about the stranger, and he had been almost certain that he (or she) had not been a threat.

So Ludwig turned around. _'Well,' _he thought to himself. _'I suppose I don't know what I was expecting._'

The boy (and it was quite obvious that it was, in fact, a boy; one who might have been around his age, or a little younger-it was hard to tell, and the lighting was poor) had big brown eyes, and that was the first thing Ludwig noticed. Seconds later, he found it remarkable that he had noticed his eyes first, because as it so happened, this boy was wearing a dress. Even more remarkable was that he didn't find it particuarly odd-well, okay, it was _odd_, sure, but even without knowing this person, it somehow seeemed that he was an exception, of sorts, as if the typical cultural rules one was expected to follow didn't apply to him.

He was also cute. Very cute, with a heart-shaped face, short-ish brown hair, and a damn-near infectous smile. Ludwig pretended not to notice. Besides, noticing something like that was practically expected, he told himself. It wasn't like he could have ignored it, really, and as long as he didn't think about it again, he would be alright.

"Hello," he said, his voice sounding stiffer than it usually did. "Are you wearing a dress?" Okay, that was a stupid question, he had to admit. In fact, why he had even started conversation was instantly beyond him. He suddenly craved the silence that had been between them seconds ago, as if there had been any real silence in the crowded gymnasium that was now pumping with music and shouts.

But the boy giggled. He honest-to-God giggled, and Ludwig found that even more odd than the fact that he was dressed like a girl. He couldn't bring himself to think that this stranger was a pervert, despite all signs that could have pointed to such a conclusion. No, his crossdressing seemed downright _wholesome. _"Yep! I lost a bet. But don't I look pretty?" Not only did his voice shock him (because apparently everything about this boy was shocking, from the cheer his tone conveyed to the distinctly Italian accent) but the words themselves did, as well. _'Who on Earth would ask that to a stranger?' _Ludwig couldn't help but think to himself. _'Don't I look pretty?' _It was an asinine question. Ludwig couldn't even believe that he expected an answer, but it was obvious that he did, with his rather intense gaze and the sense of waiting that it seemed to project.

"Yes," he said flatly. "You look very pretty." Ludwig paused, as if he had to remind himself that he had been using sarcasm. No. No, he was not going to fall for some _completely random _(and probably crazy) cross-dressing boy at a party he didn't even want to be at. He would just stop talking to him. Yes, that was the best decision, he decided.

But after a few seconds, the 'silence' he had so desperatley craved seemed downright choking. He felt like he had to say something, so he said the most rudimentary thing he could. "So, what's your name, anyway?" He wondered if the awkwardness he felt came out in his voice.

"My name is Feliciano," he said, and Ludwig thought that was it, but then he continued to talk. "Sometimes, people call me Felicia. But I'm not a girl," he added quickly. "It's just because they love me. Or, because they hate me," he added jokingly, though Ludwig could detect a sense of hurt in his voice.

Before he could stop himself, the words had come out of his mouth. And it wasn't just a question, nor was it just a stupid question; no, it was a stupid question that had the unfortunate way of sounding (if he could believe it himself) flirtatious. It was unbelievable, but he had indeed asked it. "Why would someone hate you?"

Feliciano responded with a light laugh. "You're very kind," he said, speaking with a very polite tone of voice that Ludwig wasn't used to. Of course, he was typically surrounded by people who spoke either in alternating German and English or, alternatively, half made-up slang. So it made sense that when he finally met someone who seemed to have a normal upbringing, he would take notice of the way the words said proper. Then there was the subtext; it was like his laugh from before had been in undercurrent in his words, like it had never really gone away. Ludwig felt his face heat up, and his stomach tense. It was like he was being laughed at, but at the same time, like he was in on the joke as well.

When Feliciano spoke again, it jolted Ludwig out of his thoughts. "So, mysterious stranger, do you have a name?" It must have taken Ludwig a while to respond, because he continued to speak. "Or are you a nobody? A nobody without a name," and despite the ridiculousness of his words, he said them in a solemn tone. "That's sad. I hope that's not true," said Feliciano. He paused, as if thinking of something, before speaking again. "You're far too handsome to be a nobody without a name," he added.

Normally, recieving any compliment of any kind, regardless of who it was from made Luwig feel awkward. He had never quite liked having to deal with the various social ettiquite associated with hearing praise about oneself. So why, then, did the word 'handsome' (a compliment Ludwig typically found more useless than most) when uttered from the lips of 'Feliciano, the cheerful guy I just met at some dance, who happens to be wearing a dress', made his heartbeat pound so loudly and so quickly that he could not only hear it in his ears, he could feel it as well? He didn't know. And, even worse, he didn't care. He tried to shake the thought from his head.

"Ludwig," he answered finally. "That's my name."

"Pretty name," said Feliciano. Ludwig half-expected him to start talking about something, as he had before, but instead he allowed a long, awkward silence to build up. Normally, Ludwig was a fan of silence, but he suddenly found it uncomfortable. '_Why can't I think of anything to say? I must look so stupid,' _he thought. He would have to say something. If he didn't look stupid, he probably looked rude, and he didn't want that. Then it occured to him that Feliciano could have mistaken him for someone else. He wasn't sure who, but it seemed that after he had revealed his identity, Feliciano had stopped talking altogether. And so, Ludwig spoke, if only to break the tension.

"Do you think that I am someone else?" He waited, with more tension than was probably needed, for an answer. Particuarly irritating was that suddenly, everything seemed more intense, like they tended to after a bad hangover. Every step on the dance floor seemed thunderous, the flashing lights made him feel vaugely dizzy and, curiously, he found himself unable to stop his eyes from taking in every strand of Feliciano's hair. It wasn't even normal, this obsession, not like someone blinded with lust. To be honest, it was more like he had taken a drug. Even worse, his heart continued to slam in his chest, and he couldn't pinpoint what it was about this stranger that made him so on edge.

Feliciano had been maintaining almost peculiar eye contact, but now he looked away. He seemed to avoid answering the question at first, which made Ludwig nervous, but finally he answered, smiling softly. "I know you are not," he said, and it was remarkable; the feeling he had had for so many nights now, for almost a month, felt even stronger. Of course, he found it hard to believe that this crossdressing stranger (or, Ludwig admitted with chagrin to himself, the bizarre attraction he had to him) was the 'something good' he had been anticipating for so long now...but then again, anything was possible, he supposed.

"A-and, you didn't think that we've met previously?" He tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice, but could tell the moment he spoke that he had failed. Of course, he himself was almost positive that they had never met. No, he would have remembered it.

Feliciano was looking him in the eyes now, and it was Ludwig who felt like looking away. He didn't, though; no, he maintained eye contact. "I know we have not," said Feliciano, softly. In fact, it was a miracle that Ludwig had even heard him through all of the noise, but that was just it-it was only noise, and Ludwig blocked it out.

_Should I tell him? _That was the question. It wasn't just that he made his face heat up and a tingle go down his spine, though that was a part of it. It was all about the 'something', and the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Feliciano was the 'something'. It suddenly became funny how he ever could have thought anything else. The question was, did he actually want to say that to someone he had just met? No, he had to, he decided. Besides, he didn't feel like they were strangers at all, which was perhaps the oddest thing of all. It was like they had met before.

"You know," he began, "for about a month now, I've woken up, feeling like something amazing was going to happen, though what I was not sure. But this is so much-" Before he could continue, Feliciano interrupted him. Ludwig was glad, in a way. Trying to put his thoughts into words had been harder than he'd thought.

"My hands are cold," he heard Feliciano say, though his voice was now at more of a whisper. Before he could react, Ludwig felt Feliciano take his hands in his own. His hands were oddly small, and that was the first thing he had noticed. Even more odd was that his hands actually felt quite warm, but before he could even begin to say anything (though Ludwig was sure that he was far too flustered to say anything intelligent-sounding anyway) Feliciano gently let go of his hands and spoke.

"So are yours," he said. He was glad that Feliciano was talking. It meant that he didn't have to, and he honestly believed that even if he had tried to speak, the words wouldn't have come out. Suddenly, he felt Feliciano's hands on his face. It was peculiar; no one had ever touched his face before, or at least, not like this. The touch was gentle, and tender, and Ludwig honestly hadn't known someone could be so gentle, let alone this stranger, this stranger who he had no reason to be attracted to whose side he suddenly never wanted to leave.

Before he could stop himself, Ludwig put his hands on Feliciano's cheeks. "Your face is warm, too," he said, past the point of feeling like an idiot. If he was an idiot, so be it. For once in his life, he felt peaceful, and calm, and if it was all because of another person then nothing else mattered.

Then there was a feeling that he couldn't push away or analyze. It wasn't really a feeling so much as it was a want, and although wants could be ignored just as easily as feelings could, Ludwig found that he had almost no control over his actions, or at least it seemed that way, because now he found himself with this insatiable _wanting _that he couldn't repress, no matter how hard he tried. Soon, he stopped trying at all. "It's so hard to believe that this isn't just a joke," he said, finding that his own voice was now at a low whisper.. Feliciano laughed, a twinkly little laugh that somehow reminded him of champagne bubbles.

"I have not yet learned how to joke like that," he said, his voice serious. It hadn't occured to Ludwig that English might be Feliciano's second language, but now it seemed to make sense. "Now I don't think I want to." There was a brief pause before Feliciano continued to speak. "I don't think I ever will."

Yes, decided Ludwig, Feliciano was definitely his something. And it was almost overwhelming, but almost not. He wanted to tell everyone. He wanted to scream his name in the alleyways until it bounced off of the buildings. To think that going to this dance had actually been a good idea. Perhaps that was the most unbelievable thing about it.

Something peculiar was happening; it seemed that despite his firmly held beliefs that he was asexual, not attracted to either gender, every thought in his mind screamed at him, to kiss him. What was especially odd was that his voice of reason, his inner voice telling him of rejection and ridicule and other such things, was quiet. He was about to really do it, he had even closed his eyes, but then the lights came on, the music stopped, and someone screaming in Spanish brought him out of his daze.

The first thing Ludwig noticed was that tears were now streaming down Feliciano's face. It made Ludwig's heart break, and hearing him alternate between 'lo siento' and 'mi dispiace' was even worse. (Though Ludwig's knowledge of languages other than German or English was minimal at best, he assumed that these were apologies.) Ludwig looked around quickly to survey the scene. There was the leader of the Sharks, as well as the boy he had been dancing with (who Ludwig now noticed bore an uncanny resemblance to Feliciano; it was like someone had taken Feliciano and poured a bucket of cynicsm over his head, if such a thing was possible). He also saw the Jets, though Ludwig was relieved to see only confusion in their eyes, rather than judgement.

Suddenly, it occured to him that the Sharks' leader was speaking to him. "Stay away from him, American. He is like a little brother to me, do you understand that? I don't want you to lay a finger on him!" Ludwig didn't want to correct him (he wasn't American, not any more than he was) but he didn't. Ludwig vaguely noticed Gilbert standing beside him, but he was more focused on that man whose name he didn't know. He was now..well, screaming probably wasn't accurate, but he was 'talking loudly' to Feliciano. Oh, God, what if they were related? That was a thought Ludwig tried desperately to shake. He listened to them talk.

"Couldn't you see he was one of _them_?" His voice had an accusatory tone, but Feliciano just shook his head, his words shaky and choked through his tears.

"No, Antonio! I don't understand what you mean! All I saw was him, that's all I saw, Antonio, that's all I saw!" By the end of the sentence, Feliciano had digressed into hysterical sobbing once more, and it was almost startling just how much he cried. The 'lo siento's and 'mi dispiace's started up again, and Ludwig couldn't repress the feeling of hurt he had from being forced to watch Feliciano cry.

The man (Antonio, Ludwig now knew) spoke in a softer, but still harsh tone. "I told you, little Felicia. There is only one thing boys like that want from a little immigrant. You have to be careful. They'll-" Ludwig couldn't help but interrupt at this, the statement making him far angrier than it should have.

"That's a lie! I would never do anything to hurt him." And it was true, he knew it was true, but he could feelt Gilbert pull him back, while muttering, 'Cool it, champ' into his ear. Well, he had obviously hit rock bottom; it was a sad day when Gilbert, of all people, had to tell you to 'cool it. Meanwhile, Ludwig could see a Japanese boy glaring daggers into him. It was peculiar how Ludwig hadn't noticed him before, but now he seemed to stick out-especially his eyes. Yes, his eyes were the worst. They were cold and calculating, and although Ludwig knew the thought was crazy, he could swear they were soulless.

"Get away," he said. It was funny how his voice matched his eyes. But at that moment, he wasn't important. No, not at all. Even though normally his common sense would dictate that antagonizing these, these _people _was the last thing he wanted to do, something other than common sense was calling the shots, because suddenly making sure Feliciano knew that he meant him no harm was the most important thing in the world.

"Don't listen to them," Ludwig shouted, as loud as he could. He didn't know if he had gotten Feliciano's attention until he turned around, smiling as tears fell down his cheeks. It shouldn't have matched at all, but it did, and it was like sunshine showing through clouds during a storm. But now, Antonio had his attention on Ludwig, and he didn't exactly look amiable.

"He will listen to his family before-," he began, but before Ludwig could hear him finish, Gilbert had began to speak.

"If you guys want to settle this n-" Gilbert didn't get to finish his sentence either, because suddenly, they were both interrupted by Matthew.

"Please! Everything was going so well, friends! Come on, let's, let's be friends, eh? It won't hurt you to have a good time, will it?" The lights dimmed again, the music boomed, but the Jets had began to dissapate to one side of the room, and Ludwig had no choice but to follow them. He listened carefully to the Sharks, who were either close enough for Ludwig to hear, or speaking loudly enough that the eavesdropping was almost accidental.

"I warned you Felicia, I warned you that such a thing might happen," said Antonio, clearly irritated by the whole thing. Then the Japanese boy from earlier spoke.

"Don't yell at him, Toni, it's not his fault." His voice lacked the soullessness from earlier; though there wasn't anything Ludwig could call 'compassion' in his words, at the very least he seemed to care about Feliciano's interests. And really, that's what they all had been doing, hadn't it? How could Ludwig blame any of them from looking at him and Feliciano and seeing a big, scary Jet trying to seduce their beloved family member-the baby, no less, since it appeared that they were all older than Feliciano. Of course, seduction had been far from his original intent, and really he had only been attracted to him in the first place by pure accident, but how could the Sharks have known that? Ludwig sighed. Every instance he could remember of 'forbidden love', if that's what you could call this, ended in tragedy. Who was to say that this would be different?

However, Antonio's sharp-sounding voice brought Ludwig back to reality, and he continued to listen to the Sharks talk.

"Take him home, Kiku." It wasn't a favor, nor a question, but a direct order. Ludwig could hear Feliciano begging to stay.

"Please, Toni! It's my first dance!" His voice still sounded shaky from when he had been crying. It didn't seem to be working, however, and Ludwig had to strain to hear what Antonio whispered to Feliciano.

"We are all familia. Please. Go."

Ludwig could only watch as Kiku took Feliciano by the hand and led him towards the exit. He could swear he saw Feliciano turn around once, but no eye contact was made.

"So, I guess you're with us for sure, right bro?" Gilbert's words went through one ear and out the other. If it was even possible, he cared less about being a Jet than he ever had before. Frankly, Gilbert could handle the Sharks all on his own. Ludwig had, in fact, been correct; nothing good ever came from being a Jet. Not now, and not ever.

At that moment, Ludwig noticed that Gilbert had shifted, and was now standing in front of him. Ludwig could see Antonio approaching, a serious look on his face. It ocurred to him at that instant why Gilbert had moved; Antonio wanted to see _him. _Ludwig had to admit that he was thankful for Gilbert's knowledge of this, or at the very least, his knowledge of how little Ludwig wanted to fight him.

"I don't want you," said Antonio seriously. "Please pass." His voice, just as it had been before, was quiet and serious. Still, it sent a shiver down Ludwig's spine.

"Yeah?" Gilbert's voice was, as usual, loud and defiant. However, there was a certain edge it had that it usually lacked. "Well, that's too dang bad. Because you may not want me, but I sure want you. For a war council. Doesn't that sound nice? Jets and Sharks? I do hope you'll make it." Ludwig could only see the back of Gilbert's head, but he knew that he was probably smirking at Antonio.

"I would be honored," said Antonio. He now spoke with a certain elegance. But it was typical. Antonio didn't strike him as the type who would turn down a challenge, and knowing Gilbert, that was exactly what this was.

"Okay! Let's go outside!" Oh, no. Of course Gilbert was going to get himself killed, on tonight of all nights. It was karma. Ludwig found someone he liked, his brother was going to be shanked. Yes, it was all too typical, but thankfully Antonio turned down this particular offer.

"Now is too soon. We will meet you in thirty minutes," said Antonio. Despite the circumstances, his voice carried a professional tone. Gilbert's hands were on his hips as he spoke.

"Doc's drugstore?" It was the typical meeting place, Ludwig recalled, and so he was not surprised.

"Yes," replied Antonio simply. He walked away, and Ludwig couldn't watch him. Gilbert turned to him.

"Alright!" said Gilbert. "West, let's go spread the word!" As Ludwig walked away from Gilbert, unable to think of anything he could say at this point, he could hear his words echo in the nearly deserted gymnasium.

When Ludwig walked outside, the cool air hit his face almost instantly. But that wasn't what he felt. No, despite the horrific circumstances he now found himself in, all he could think about was the word that was now in his head, over and over again. He didn't want to shout it, though; no, now Ludwig wanted to sing it, sing it to anyone who would listen-which, he realized, would be just about everyone, for all of the wrong reasons.

_Feliciano. _If only it had a tune.


End file.
